Watson's Woes July 2016
by Pompey
Summary: It's that time of year again when we torture our favorite doctor on a daily basis! Answering the July daily challenges from the LJ Community Watson's Woes. (These stories will be of varying lengths, varying universes/fandoms, varying tones, and varying ratings. Rating this whole thing as "T" for safety.)
1. July 1 - Aftereffects

Title: Aftereffects

Author: Pompey

Universe: ACD, slightly AU

Warnings: slightly AU

Word count: 150

Summary: Not all is well after "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot Root"

Prompt: July 1 – Tis But a Scratch

* * *

After the misadventure in Cornwall, Holmes and Watson returned to London apparently no worse for wear. Indeed, the experience seemed to have renewed Holmes's spirit – which, after all, had been the goal of the trip.

Watson, however, found his dreams increasingly becoming nightmares. An uneasy sensation of being watched – _stalked_ – plagued him during the day. Still, he saw no reason to worry Holmes. Given enough time, surely he would throw off the effects of the devil's foot root by himself.

Then the Ghazi burst into the sitting room, brandishing a Khyber knife. Watson snatched up the closest weapon – the iron poker – and desperately swung at the figure, knocking him to the ground. Watson stood over him, ready to strike again. The Ghazi rolled onto his back and seized the poker as it came down upon him, eyes wide with fear and horror.

"Watson, stop!" he cried in a familiar voice.


	2. July 2 - Good Shot

Title: Good Shot

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC

Rating: PG

Warnings: none?

Word count: 175

Summary: Sherlock hasn't deleted John's actions from their first case together.

Prompt: July 2 – Roll the Dice

* * *

Tom Myers pressed the business end of his revolver even harder against Sherlock's temple. "Drop the gun, Doctor."

The only movement from John was that his body sort of stilled, as though every molecule of him was concentrating, Sig still trained on Myers. His eyes moved a fraction of a centimeter to meet Sherlock's. And Sherlock remembered their first case together.

 _That's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman - a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all so clearly he's acclimatized to violence . . . he's got a strong moral code. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service, nerves of steel . . ._

John's voice in his head protested, _You risk your life to prove you're clever . . . Because you're an idiot_.

 _No. I'd be an idiot not to trust you_. Sherlock gave John a lightning-fast smile and closed his eyes for a second, the closest he could get to nodding his permission.

John's lips parted. "Vatican," he said, "cameos."


	3. July 3 - Case of Speckled Box (pt 1)

Title: The Case of the Speckled Box (Part 1)

Author: Pompey

Universe: Great Mouse Detective - bookverse

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: accurate medical ickiness and anachronistic chemicals

Word count: 1948

Summary: Basil and Dawson investigate some unexplained rodent deaths – to Dawson's detriment.

Prompt: July 3 – cardboard box

A/N: see at the end to avoid spoilers

* * *

I tried not to pace as I waited for Basil to appear. It might disrupt some clue only his sharp eyes would catch. Nevertheless, I could not stop my tail for twitching now and again from fear, anger, and grief. I was no stranger to death – a mouse's life is fraught with danger – but I had never seen death like this, and within London at that. I glanced at the paws I had scrubbed no fewer than three times. They looked as raw as I felt.

At long last Basil burst into the bankvole home. "I came as soon as I received your telegraph – " Then he broke off and stared at me, then at the six gore-covered corpses in the room. "Great Pan, Dawson!"

I nodded grimly. "I found the gentlevole on the street nearly dead. By the time I had brought him back here, his wife and kits were already dead. He followed only a few minutes later."

"Did he say what attacked them?" Basil demanded, peering about the room.

I shook my head. "No, he only begged me to help his family. Basil," I added to force him to stop his investigation and focus on my next words, "they were not attacked. Not by any large predator, anyway."

My friend stared at me. "But the blood!"

"They all died of hemorrhage, yes, but Basil, look here." We crouched next to the head of the deceased gentlevole. "You see where the blood is coming from: eyes, ears, nose, even his gums! Yet there isn't a wound to be seen on him. Not on any of them! Not so much as a scratch!" I realized my voice had risen to a shout and I hastily reined in my emotions.

Basil silently touched my shoulder. I tried not to flinch. It was not so long ago that my skin had been utterly painted with the blood of the dead; I could not bear to be touched so soon. "That is the worst of it, Basil – I haven't any idea what might have caused this."

"No external wounds," my friend muttered as if to himself.

"None," I replied regardless. "But I can't imagine what could have inflicted internal wounds severe enough to cause bleeding like this, and to all part of their bodies so that every orifice should bleed."

Basil rose and his eyes took on a distant look. "Dawson," he said slowly, "are there not some snakes whose venom can cause uncontrolled bleeding?"

"There are, but a snake would have left puncture marks. And a snake . . ." I hesitated, searching for a delicate way to phrase my next thought, "would not have left their bodies afterward."

"Naturally, Dawson, but you miss my point. There are animals in the world whose bite contains naturally occurring chemicals that could induce hemorrhage. Snakes are but one example. There are also leeches, mosquitoes, spiders. "

"But all the animals you mention would have left visible bite marks."

"Not if were only the venom or saliva that these poor bankvoles came into contact with, rather than the entire animal."

I froze and stared at him in horror. "You mean that somebeast deliberately did this to them? Who? And why?"

"I believe the most immediate question is 'how?' and to answer that, we must make a full search of this domicile. I shall start with this corner, Dawson, if you would be so kind as to take the opposite corner."

I was faintly pleased that Basil trusted my own skills in observation, even if it were no more than a ploy to distract me from the tragedy we were investigating. Unfortunately, I could find nothing of significance. The household was small and impoverished but well cared for. There were no gaping holes in the walls or ceiling, no suspicious dust or ash upon the floor, and though the larder contained a variety of seed I was not familiar with, careful sniffing and an even more cautious nibble did not reveal anything dangerous.

"Hmmm," Basil said behind me, carefully extracting something tiny, fibrous, and blood-stained from between the teeth of the male bankvole. "It is difficult to tell through the stains, but I believe this is a piece of red and blue speckled cardboard. Curious."

"Not so very curious," I replied. "Shredded paper products make for comfortable and economical bedding." I gestured towards what was clearly their beds, lined with the same.

"But Dawson, do you see anything in this room that is speckled red and blue?"

I confessed that I did not. "Is it pertinent to this case, do you think?"

"I cannot say, but I am reluctant to discount anything at this point. Let us return to Baker Street, dear fellow, and allow the coroner to do his work for these poor creatures."

To our surprise, there was a client waiting for us in our sitting room, a dormouse named Mrs. Julia Hopewell. She had come to us to beg our help in determining what had killed her brother, Roy Stone.

"The police say that with so much blood coming from him, he must have been climbing one of the outside walls and fell to his death when he lost his footing. But that is nonsense! He was terribly afraid of heights; he wouldn't have dreamed of climbing up anything to the point where falling would have killed him. So I demanded an autopsy, and wouldn't you know, sir, even though his belly was full of blood there wasn't a single broken bone! How could he have died from a fall without breaking a single bone? I ask you!"

Basil and I exchanged glances. "Mrs. Hopewell," he said carefully, "was your brother's cause of death hemorrhage?"

"He was found bleeding something fierce, if that is what you mean."

"Did your brother reside anywhere near Melcombe Street?"

The lady put a paw to her throat in surprise. "He did, Mr. Basil, but however did you know?"

"Because a similar fate has befallen others who lived on that street. That is why it is imperative you tell me all you can regarding your brother. Leave nothing out, no matter how insignificant it may seem to you."

"I scarcely know where to begin, Mr. Basil," Mrs. Hopewell faltered. "My brother and I were not especially close and he was – well, not to speak ill of the dead, but he was such a miserly skinflint he would not even have a housekeeper, not even I. He had no wife either. He said he could tend to his own affairs in a manner that satisfied him and without the extra expense of a servant. I could not say what he might have gotten up to that caused him to die in such a way."

"Did you have a key to his home?"

"I do, sir. Do you wish to examine it? His home, I mean."

Basil looked deadly serious. "I do, madam. With luck, I shall not only discover what killed your brother and a family of bankvoles, but prevent further deaths."

.

The late Mr. Stone's residence was reasonably clean for a bachelor establishment and utterly free of any homey accoutrements that would have personalized it. Search though I might, I could find nothing untoward or unusual.

"What do you make of this, Dawson?" Basil asked me from the larder. "I cannot identify these seeds for the life of me. Do you recognize them?"

I joined him, looked at the seeds in question, and felt an uneasiness fall over me. "Yes, I do. The bankvole family had the same seeds in their larder as well." Basil turned his head sharply to look at me and I rushed to explain myself. "But there was nothing unusual to them! They smelled and tasted perfectly normal, rather like a cross between sunflower seeds and acorns."

"Tasted?" Basil asked with some alarm.

My uneasy grew into a dull fear. "Yes, but only a mouthful, no more than any mouse would take when testing a new food. Why?" Slowly Basil lifted an edge of the paper that the seeds lay upon. The underside was speckled blue and red.

"I think, my dear fellow," he said, artificially calmly, "that if you have any clay in your bag, you should take a mouthful of it now to be on the safe side."

Feeling rather dazed, I opened my bag and took out the little pot of clay I kept on hand to treat cases of poisoning. Humans and some other mammals are capable of vomiting to rid themselves of poisons; we mice must opt for other measures. Silently I scooped out a pawful of the clay, held it in my mouth until it had warmed and thinned a bit, and then swallowed it.

After I had replaced the pot in my bag, I turned and smiled as cheerfully as I could, though I was fairly certain I was not fooling him in the slightest. "What is the next step in the investigation?"

His expression remained grave and concerned. "We track down the source of this paper and these seeds. With all the victims living on the same street, it ought not be too difficult." He gave me a smile that was no more convincing than mine had been.

.

It did not take us very long. Mr. Stone's home was no more than a foot away from the nearest human cellar. Basil and I made our way carefully across the dirt floor, keeping to the perimeter in the pitch dark. Suddenly I became aware of a familiar scent. "Basil."

"I smell it too," he whispered. "We are close. Keep near the wall."

We crept along until we were forced to turn at a corner and found ourselves obliged to squeeze under a musty wooden shelf. The smell of the strange seeds became stronger yet. Basil seized my paw and placed it against something flat and firm that scritched when my claws rasped against it. "A cardboard box?" I asked softly.

"Indeed. Mind your eyes." There was a sudden, tiny flash of yellow light as Basil lit a match and held it up. The side of the box was as tall as we were and was covered in paper that was speckled in blue and red. One portion near the top had been ripped out in a jagged way that suggested rodent teeth had been at it.

"Stay here, Dawson. I'm going to see if there is anything on the lid." Basil blew out his match and in the dark I heard the sounds of claws against paper. Above my head I saw the flash of another match being lit. After a moment I heard what sounded like a smothered gasp and the tiny light disappeared. Then came the sounds of a mouse slipping down paper and Basil was on the ground beside me once more. I waited for him to speak or to light another match. He did neither.

I could not bear the suspense any longer. "Basil? What is it?"

I heard a deep intake of breath. "The box is full of what we had thought were seeds," he said tonelessly. "They are, in fact, pellets made of sunflower seeds, acorn mash and a chemical called brodifacoum."

"I have never heard of such a chemical."

"No, nor I. Apparently it is a new substance created by humans."

I suddenly felt quite cold and sick. "Created for what purpose, Basil?"

There was a long silence. I felt his paw gently grasp one of mine. "Dawson, my dear fellow," Basil whispered brokenly, "it . . ." He sighed with a hint of a sob and his paw tightened. "It is a rodenticide."

* * *

Author's Notes: Nearly all rodents are physically unable to vomit so instead they will consume substances like clay and dirt that will neutralize or absorb poisons.

Brodifacoum has been the active ingredient in a lot of commercial rodenticides, like D-Con, since the 1980s. It's an anticoagulant way more powerful than warfarin.


	4. July 4 - Case of Speckled Box (pt 2)

Title: The Case of the Speckled Box (part 2/3?)

Author: Pompey

Universe: Great Mouse Detective bookverse

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: medical ickiness and anachronistic chemicals

Word count: 1053

Summary: Basil and Dawson investigate some unexplained rodent deaths – to Dawson's detriment.

Prompt: July 4 – 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse

* * *

Basil's words sent me reeling. A rodenticide. A poison designed specifically to kill rodents like us. A poison that caused massive and fatal internal bleeding. And I had consumed it.

"I only had one bite of one pellet," I heard myself say. "And I took the dose of clay within hours of that."

Basil lit another match and peered at me closely in the uncertain light. "And you have felt no ill effects so far?"

"At the moment I feel rather sick but I think that is more from fear than anything else," I replied honestly.

"Since I feel much the same, I believe your judgment is correct," conceded Basil. "But Dawson, if you start to feel anything amiss at all, you must say so. Now is not the time to be stoic."

"You have my word."

"Good. I hope I also have your word that you will go directly back to Baker Street and wait for me there." He shook out the match before it could singe his claws.

"Wait for you there? You are not returning to Baker Street?"

"Not right away, my dear fellow," Basil answered, giving up on the matches and opting for his lighter. "This is a commercially prepared substance. If one human has already purchased such a thing, it is certain other humans will as well. And this new poison is a health hazard to our kind if ever there was one. We shall need to alert the public to the danger."

"Yes, of course." I felt ashamed at my selfishness, that I had not thought of this myself. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Besides returning to Baker Street? Yes, I shall need you to write up a description of these pellets as well as a list of symptoms that citizens should watch for. If I know anything about our government, they will be putting out posters and leaflets. We must give them some data to work with. I shall see you in an hour or two. Take care, Dawson." So saying, he touched my shoulder lightly and then he was gone.

Upon my return to Baker Street, I told Mrs. Judson of our discovery and described for her the box and the pellets. I did, however, refrain from telling her exactly how horrible the effects were – and that I was in some danger myself. Still, my words were effective and she promised to spread the word up and down Baker Street.

For my part, I sat down to record all that I could remember regarding the poison. Unfortunately, I did not have any definite timeframe for the progression of symptoms or even what the earliest symptoms were. The best I could do was to make an educated guess. If the poor wretches had died from internal hemorrhage, likely their conditions had begun with a higher propensity to bruise and severely at that. The delicate capillaries of the eyes and digits would be the first to rupture. And later, when the internal bleeding began, there would be abdominal pain and firmness.

I put down my pen at this and reread my list. So much of it was based on speculation and conjecture. I wondered if this was Basil's way of making me exercise my own deductive powers but with a medicinal bend. Or perhaps he meant it as nothing more than a distraction from fruitless worrying. It had done that, at least temporarily.

True to his word, Basil arrived within two hours. He looked grim initially but softened when he saw I was no worse. He settled himself into his chair and began filling his pipe. "I have been thinking it over, Dawson. The box must have been placed there by a human. The scent of human was quite faint though still present. Therefore, I estimate the box was put there five to seven days ago. I cannot think that any rodent with the intelligence to survive in London would so freely and carelessly eat any substance that smelled strongly of humans unless driven to it. The bankvoles were impoverished; Mr. Stone was greedy. For several days their diets were made up solely of the poisoned pellets. Under those circumstances, it is no wonder they died. But you, Dawson, consumed a miniscule fraction of that, and took precautions afterward."

Put like that, I felt the faint stirrings of hope. "It is possible I may escape the effects, then."

"Or at the most, suffer no more than – what is it you have written? 'Easy bruising.' That is certainly a tolerable effect compared to what we have witnessed."

* * *

I awoke the next morning to find that I had indeed begun bruising. I could not even recall having stubbed my footpaw but there was undoubtedly a hematoma forming. With a sigh and a shrug, I set about getting ready for the day. My eyes felt rather dry and sticky so I washed with slightly more pressure than I might otherwise have.

I don't know if that was the cause or merely the exacerbation. In any event, when I looked up from the wash basin to my mirror I froze in horror. There were drops of fresh blood at the corners of both eyes, and though they were scarcely visible, both scleras had turned red from broken vessels. As I stared at my reflection, I imagined I could feel death stalking me like some great, shadowy cat. Perhaps it took far less brodifacoum to kill than Basil had calculated.

Then my nerve returned. I had faced down death before. Not just death either, but war and pestilence and even famine to a certain extent as well and I had endured. Whatever my fate was to be, I would face it head-on as a proper soldier. I blotted away the drops of blood, squared my shoulders, and left my room.

I did not intend to keep the recent developments a secret from Basil. Had our positions been reversed, I would furious if he kept something like that from me. But I had planned to break the news in such a way that it kept things in perspective.

Unfortunately, Basil is always the master of observation. No sooner did I enter the sitting room than he looked up from his scribblings, gasped, and cried out, "Dawson, your eyes!"

.


	5. July 5 - Friendship is Magic

Title: Friendship is Magic

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC Sherlock

Rating: G

Word count: 100

Summary: John would do anything for an investigation, but he won't do that.

Prompt: July 5 – A False Mustache (disguises)

* * *

"No."

"John – "

"No."

"It's a convention. You need to blend - "

"No."

"You'll stand out like a sore thumb if you don't wear – "

" _No_."

"You saw what Riley did to that pensioner couple. Would you really let your pride stop you from catching a criminal like that?"

"Sherlock. What Riley did was horrible and he must be stopped. But I _will not_ dress up like a pastel pony from a little girls' show."

". . . You can be Twilight Sparkle."

" . . . . . . . . . . Before or after Season 4?"

* * *

A/N: I was really struggling with this prompt for some reason, but then I the episode "Rarity Investigates" from _My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic._ In the scene where Rarity is interviewing the cake shop owner, I saw something on the far left of the screen that made me say, "whaaaaaa?! No, it can't be!" Then towards the end, when in the flashback where the bad guy gets chocolate on their scarf, I saw it again. Suffice to say, we have proof that at least one animator for _My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic_ is a fan of _Sherlock_. :D


	6. July 6 - Case of Speckled Box (pt 3)

Title: Case of the Speckled Box (Part 3/3) (aka "Parsley, Basil, Dandelion, and Time")

Author: Pompey

Universe: Great Mouse Detective bookverse

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: medical ickiness and anachronistic chemicals

Word count:1109

Summary: Basil and Dawson investigate some unexplained rodent deaths – to Dawson's detriment. Prompt: July 6 – food glorious food

* * *

I sighed. This was not the first time I wished Basil were not so observant but it was the first time I wished it for his sake. "Yes, I know. The vessels in the eyes are delicate to begin with and I rubbed my eyes too vigorously when I woke."

My friend did not look any less concerned. "You did list it among the probable symptoms but I thought bruising would happen first."

"It did," I answered wryly, only to have his gaze shoot to my footpaws and darken further. Taking care not to move too quickly, I sat at the table, thus hiding the offending appendage. "I shall make sure to take all precautions today."

" _All_ precautions?" Basil repeated soberly. "How will you do that during your medical rounds to the rougher parts of London?"

I had not given the matter much thought, truth be told. I considered the question as I poured a cup of tea. I had only one option, at least for the immediate future. There was no helping it. It was risky enough for a mouse to venture out on the streets when he was hale. "I will have to forego my rounds. Just until the symptoms improve."

I thought I saw pity flash across Basil's face for a fraction of a second before it was hidden beneath an impassive mask. "Which, I hope, shall not be for very long, my dear fellow. In the meantime, we have a public health campaign to wage and you will have a key part to play."

"I?"

"Of course. Who better to observe and study the effects of brodifacoum on mice than a mouse who is himself of a scientific bend?"

I narrowed my blood-shot eyes at him. "I trust you are referring to me when you speak of a mouse of a scientific bend and not yourself. I have no desire to be a guinea pig."

"And small wonder," Basil replied. "How any proper rodent can purr like a cat and war-dance like a weasel is quite beyond me."

I snorted at his flippancy but it did bring the first genuine smile to my face since the whole dreadful business began. I am sorry to say, it was the last for quite a while.

* * *

A few days past. Then seven days went by, then ten. There did not seem to be an end to the wretched effects of the infernal poison. A simple bump against the corner of a chair could leave a painful bruise the size of a tea cup. A moment of thoughtlessly scratching an ear left me pressing bandages against the wound for nearly half an hour before the bleeding stopped. When awake, I could control my movements but I could not do so while asleep. Every morning I awakened to find new bruising, to the point that I feared I would soon have to add iron anemia to my list of ailments.

I tried to occupy my mind with the public health campaign but I was limited to what I could accomplish from our Baker Street rooms. It was simply too dangerous for me to leave when a sudden stumble or an accidental blow from a stranger walking past might incapacitate me or worse.

Basil did his best to find me activities and to keep me company. I appreciated his efforts but it was a hard thing to see him nip out, however briefly, while I was essentially a prisoner in my own home. It did not help in the slightest that no one seemed to have any idea how long the effects of the poison would last. Most of those who had consumed it were already dead and those who still lived were in the same position as I.

For that matter, it was not entirely a sure thing that the effects would lessen. The results of arsenic and lead poisoning can be permanent; perhaps brodifacoum would be no different. Then, of course, there was the possibility that death was inevitable and I was merely living on borrowed time. The uncertainty grated on me nearly as much as my inactivity and uselessness. And as the twelfth day passed without any improvement, I grew more and more convinced that I would never lead a normal life again.

It was sheer providence that the next morning, before I could even come awake fully, Basil practically danced into my bedroom and thrust a steaming plate of some leafy vegetables directly in my face. "Buttered parsley and dandelion, Dawson!" he crowed.

Annoyed, I pushed the plate away. "Yes, Basil, I can smell what it is. The question is not 'what' but 'why.' You know I'm not overly fond of dandelion leaves."

My friend merely laughed. "I think you shall find a new appreciation for them, my very dear fellow. In these humble leaves lies your long-sought cure."

I fear I stared at him as though he had sprouted wings. For a moment I truly thought he had gone mad from the strain of the past two weeks. "Buttered parsley and dandelion leaves are the cure?"

Basil perched himself on the foot of my bed. "I only received the wire from America an hour ago. Our fellow mice across the Atlantic have had a few months' head start in researching the effects and treatments of brodifacoum poisoning - sadly, they have also had a head start in the number of deaths too. But they found a case where one mouse, a very strict vegetarian who rarely partakes of even seeds or pollen, experienced only the mildest effects after nibbling one of the pellets when other mice who had consumed the same amount were in far more serious condition. The Americans experimented with feeding affected mice the same diet as our vegetarian with astonishing results.

"Admittedly," Basil added, somewhat reluctantly, "the experiments have been done with only a very small test group. But Dawson, every one of the mice who was fed large amounts of parsley and dandelion leaves not only lived, but recovered in half the time it took the untreated mice and with no permanent side effects noted."

I sat quite stunned by the revelations that tumbled from Basil's mouth. Not only had a likely cure been found, but I could only imagine the sort of frantic searching he had done to find it – not only for me but the entire populace. I could find no words to adequately express my gratitude.

I was silent for so long that Basil finally stirred uneasily. "Dawson? Please, say something."

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and said, somewhat thickly, "Do you have a fork?"

* * *

A/N: guinea pigs do actually purr and "weasel war-dance" (or "popcorn") when happy. And they were used as, well, guinea pigs well into the early 20th century.

\- brodifacoum has a very slow half-life. It takes a minimum of three weeks to completely clear it from the body.

\- Vitamin K supplement is the modern treatment for brodifacoum poisoning because it's an important clotting factor. It really is found in dark green, leafy vegetables and is more easily absorbed when eaten with fats. (But Vitamin K wasn't discovered IRL until 1920 or so, and you'd have to be a cow to eat enough parsley or dandelion leaves to effectively counteract brodifacoum poisoning.)


	7. July 7 - Inference

Title: Inference

Author: Pompey

Universe: RDJ movie-verse

Rating: PG

Warnings: implications of character death

Word count: 400

Summary: Mrs. Watson comes to Baker Street. Holmes deduces.

Prompt: July 7 - Epidemic

* * *

Holmes did not stir an inch when Mrs. Hudson announced that "Mrs. Watson is here to see you." What did catch his interest was the sound of his housekeeper's footsteps stopping at the doorway rather than proceeding back down the stairs. There was a rustling noise and a deep, feminine inhalation that sounded rather quavery. Then, at last, Mrs. Hudson exited the sitting room, leaving him alone with that woman.

"Mr. Holmes," she began in a voice that was low and slightly unsteady, "please come with me?"

Some little demon in his heart stirred him to be cruelly flippant. "Even if I were a marrying man, Mrs. Watson, I should like to think I might resist the charms of my friend's wife, no matter how stale she finds married life."

"Don't." The one word hissed out with such ferocity and anger and – was that sadness? finally made Holmes turn to look and truly observe her.

 _Boots poorly laced and sloppily tied. Hat is slightly askew and hair has fly-aways. Inference: She has come here in a hurry._

 _What bit of dress is visible below her coat is plain in its cut and style, in a dark patterned print. It is a dress meant for housework yet she wears it in public. Faint grime at the hemline. She would not have walked here so the dirt is not a recent accumulation. She has been wearing it for a least a day straight. Inference: She has been homebound for some time, working on an absorbing task, and some emergency has brought her here._

 _Her face is pale, dark shadows beneath her eyes. She has had more than one sleepless night. Her eyes . . . Dear God, she is blinking back tears. Inference:_

"What has happened to Watson?" Holmes demanded, springing to his feet and crossing over to her.

"You haven't heard about the measles epidemic?"

He had caught wind of it but had dismissed it as unworthy of a space in his brain-attic. He had had measles as a boy and was therefore immune. Surely . . . "Surely Watson had measles as a child!"

Slowly she shook her head and the tears she had kept back for so long finally welled up. "Mr. Holmes, John is asking to see you."

 _Watson hates to have an audience when he is sick, or injured, or otherwise weakened. Inference . . . ._


	8. July 8 - Two Fixed Points

Title: Two Fixed Points

Author: Pompey

Universe: umm, all of them?

Rating: PG

Warnings: spoiler for a single episode of "Elementary" S1 and a single episode of "SH in 22nd Century"

Word count: 443

Summary: Throughout every age, despite all advances in the field, two constants remain.

Prompt: July 8 – Wonder of the Age

A/N: Rather light and vague on the woe for Watson, I fear.

* * *

In the final years of Victoria's reign and into the earliest years of Edward's, the embryonic field of forensic science began in earnest. Teeth marks were used to convict a murderer for the first time. Fingerprints were noted to be unique to each individual, and used as evidence accordingly. Phrenology was on its way into the dustbin of history (where it rightly belonged, according to Watson and Holmes had no reason to disagree.) A pity that the leap forward in the art of detection meant that the common criminal merely stepped up his game and took to wearing gloves.

In the 1930s and 1940s, luminol – that blood-identifying substance such a far cry from his haemoglobin test of 1881 - was invented, as was the acid phosphatase test that identified the presence of semen (admittedly a fluid he had not experimented with, although its usefulness was undeniable in certain cases that would have been unmentionable only a few decades prior.) Of course, the "tommy gun" had come into the public's consciousness in perhaps the worst way possible.

Smart phones of the late 2000s created a breakthrough in the world of investigation the likes of which had never before been seen: phone records, photo evidence, internet access literally at one's fingertips - who needed a bulky, paper index with technology like that! But they also proved to be a vehicle for criminal activity the likes of which had never before been seen either. Not just phones either – although it took a rather devious mind to take a 3D printer and make it literally "print" a gun that could then be dissolved in acid to the point that it could be disguised as a bottle of milk.

The 22nd century certainly had its share of miraculous breakthroughs in the art of crime detection and prevention: police cruisers with their "pulses" capable of disabling the magnets of flying vehicles; new medications and mental stimulants that more effectively treated mental disorders, even sociopathic tendencies; international genetic databases that could compare a strand of DNA found in India to one found on the moon within a matter of minutes. But then, Holmes had also witnessed the horror that came when medical nanobots, created to heal, were turned into a truly vile weapon.

It seemed to Sherlock Holmes that there were virtually only two fixed points throughout eternity: 1) that evil people would always exist, taking new inventions and breakthroughs and twisting them to dastardly purposes; and 2) that through it all, Watson would always be by his side to stand with him against the forces of evil . . . regardless of what it cost Watson to do it.


	9. June 9 - Surprising

Title: Surpring

Author: Pompey

Universe: Elementary

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: drugging, potential trigger

Word count: 355

Summary: When Joan gets drugged, it's the criminal who gets the surprise.

Prompt: July 9 – Please do not pet the test subjects.

* * *

"Watson."

Someone brushed her hair away from her face. "Watson?"

She wanted to respond, she really did. It was just that her lips felt like they were about five miles away from her brain. She wasn't even sure she could remember how to make them work.

A gentle hand lightly cupped her cheek. "Joan, please, open your eyes."

"Mr. Holmes, kindly stop petting the test subject," ordered a male voice she did not recognize though it sounded familiar. The hand left her cheek and there was a sort of rustling noise.

"Not much of a test, was it, Evans," snarled an English-accented voice, which took her far too long to identify as Sherlock Holmes. "The effects of 'devil's breath' are already well documented so I doubt there was anything new that you could have learned. Oh, don't look so surprised; it would be blindingly obvious you threw powdered scopolamine into her face, even if I didn't know of your Columbian connections. I'm only surprised that you were unaware that occasionally the victim of scopolamine dosing will turn violent – particularly if she has been trained in self-defense. It looks to me as though it's cost you a broken nose, a blacked eye, and at least one cracked rib." If her lips were working, Watson would have smiled, not only at the list of damages she had caused but also at the undercurrent of pride in his voice.

"Oh, I think it was quite worth the price, Mr. Holmes. You might be surprised how much I learned from your partner while she not in her right mind. Quite informative."

A coldness crept over her that had nothing to do with the effects of the alkaloid. What had she told him? She couldn't remember a thing after she had turned the knob to enter the brownstone.

"Bravado does not suit you, Evans," Sherlock retorted. "You forget – you are in my domain, on my territory. I have remote access to the webcam just there. I was listening in the entire time. The only thing you learned from Watson was how strong of a left hook she has."


	10. July 10- I Swear by Apollo the Physician

Title: I Swear by Apollo the Physician

Author: Pompey

Universe: ACD Canon

Rating: PG

Warnings: potentially heretical

Word count: 500

Summary: Take care when you swear by someone's name. Someone might be listening.

Prompt: July 10 – a higher power

* * *

Deities come, deities go. That has always been the way of it, Asclepius knew. The new supplants the old, which in turn becomes old. It was only through worship that the deities existed at all. Once mortals forgot about a god, that god ceased to be.

Most of his divine family had dwindled and faded into obscurity. His Aunt Artemis no longer hunted through her moonlight; his Great-Uncle Poseidon no longer commanded the waves. Some of them, though, retained a drop of power. Any time a mortal cried "By Jove" in surprise or plied an intended conquest with aphrodisiac foods, that relative survived just a little bit longer. Asclepius was relieved on a paternal level that two of his daughters, Hygieia and Panacea, would live on through words derived from their names. His other three daughters . . . well, not even a god who had mastered the art of resurrecting the dead could bring back into existence a god that no mortal recalled, let alone worshipped.

As for himself and his father Apollo, remembrance came from the most unlikely of places: an oath sworn by scores of mortals ever year. Not that any of them believe in him or Apollo, let alone worshipped them. Yet the oath kept their names, and thus the deities themselves, alive. Moreover, every time one of the mortals who had sworn the oath remembered it or took pains to uphold it, Asclepius felt a faint whisper of the power he had wielded thousands of years ago.

Gods did not invade the territories of other gods unless their worshippers brought them in. That was how Asclepius found himself in so many strange countries and climes so far from his homeland. That was how he came to be in a hot, dry, sandy place where the sun (no longer driven by his father) beat down mercilessly on the mortals below. Their activities were nothing to Asclepius unless they affected him directly. Besides, the mortals he had such a tenuous connection to worshipped not him but a god who hailed from another sandy country far from here.

Even so . . . Asclepius's attention was drawn to one of those who had sworn the oath in his name and was, even now, trying his hardest to fulfill it. The god of medicine couldn't help but smile, then frown as he noticed a mortal in the clothing of the opposition aiming a weapon at the oath-maker. Gods did not interfere with the worshippers of another god, but they did have the right to protect their own.

Asclepius lightly flicked the tiny metal projectile as it flew so that it merely wounded instead of killed. He did not have the strength to do much more, nor did he dare to. If the oath-maker's deity - Yahweh, was it? Or was Jehovah? Asclepius had never been certain and now didn't seem to be a good time to ask – meant for this mortal to die there would certainly be other opportunities.


	11. July 11 - 28, 29, 30

Title: Twenty-eight, Twenty-nine, Thirty

Author: BBC

Universe: Elementary

Rating: G

Warnings: I wasn't able to find anything from the British Red Cross about 2-person CPR so I defaulted to the guidelines from the American Red Cross. Also, this story is not overly burdened with plot.

Word count: 456

Summary: During a crisis, it's _all_ hands on deck.

Prompt: July 11 - threesome

* * *

John sat upright from listening to the agonal gasps of the collapsed suspect. Immediately he started feeling for the xyphoid process, lacing his fingers and positioning his hands over the sternum. As he began compressions, he locked eyes with the Yard's Chief Superintendent. "Call 999, fetch a defibrillator, and go wait by the doors for the ambulance."

For a man John had once punched in the face, the bureaucrat was quick to obey. The man might be an unbearable pillock but at least he could recognize a medical emergency when it was literally under his nose. Unfortunately, barking out the orders had already made John lose count of his compressions.

"Seven, and eight, and nine, and ten – " DI Dimmock suddenly began counting from a position by the unconscious suspect's head. John turned his head slightly to look but didn't stop compressions. Dimmock only smiled slightly and kept counting.

"Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty." John relaxed his stance and let Dimmock give two rescue breaths _(without a mask?! Brave man. Or foolish_ ) before starting compressions again.

The superintendent came tearing back with the defibrillator and a ventilation mask. While John compressed and Dimmock counted, the third man opened the defib, pulled out the electrodes, and got the wires attached. Then, as John grabbed the electrodes to position them on the suspect's chest, Dimmock assembled the mask and the superintendent went to wait by the doors.

"Analyzing. Stand clear," intoned the machine and both John and Dimmock put up their hands in a "don't shoot" sort of way.

"No shock advised. Continue CPR."

"Dammit." If no shock was advised but CPR was, that meant that the suspect wasn't even in a-fib – he was in full cardiac arrest. John repositioned his hands and began another cycle of compressions. Dimmock gave the two rescue breaths, and noticing John starting to lag slightly, said, "CHANGE, and two, and three, and – "

John tightened his lips but didn't argue. His shoulder was already starting to twinge. After Dimmock gave two breaths, John took his place at the suspect's head while Dimmock slid down to kneel by the ribcage and positioned his own hands for compressions. And John took up the count instead.

"Analyzing. Stand clear. Shock advised. Press the red button. Stand clear."

John scooted back towards the defibrillator, checked to make sure Dimmock wasn't touching the suspect, and hit the red button. The unconscious body jerked once.

"Analyzing. Continue CPR." Well. A-fib was better than complete cardiac arrest, at any rate.

As Dimmock resumed compressions, John heard, over his own voice keeping count, the sounds of the superintendent's shouting "here, over here!" and the wail of an approaching ambulance. It was just possible that their unlikely trio may have saved this man's life.


	12. July 12 - The 6 Cream Napoleons

Title: The Six Cream Napoleons

Author: Pompey

Universe: Elementary

Rating: G

Warnings: slight crackiness

Word count: 325

Summary: Dupin and Sherlock know the best place to hide something is in plain sight. I didn't exactly follow the picture prompt, just what the picture inspired me to think of.

Prompt: July 12 – picture prompt (poodle with the matching poodle cupcakes)

* * *

Sherlock swung his arm theatrically at the display case. "What do you see?"

Gregson raised his eyebrows. "Ummm . . . desserts?"

"Napoleons?" Joan hazarded.

Sherlock huffed. "Yes, napoleons, or 'mille-feuilles' as the French call them. But what do you notice about them?"

"They're ungodly expensive?"

Before Sherlock could show his exasperation again, Joan squinted at the six squares of sugariness in front of them. "That one has dark chocolate chevrons on it. The others have a lighter chocolate."

"Well done, Joan. Odd, wouldn't you say, that such a high-end pastry shop shows such a lack of uniformity?"

Gregson shrugged. "So one's got dark chocolate and the others don't. Maybe they're selling a couple different kinds of napoleon."

"No," Joan said, really more thinking out loud than anything else. "If they were, they would be advertising the different kinds, like they're doing for the chocolate chip cookies. And that dark chocolate one is in the back. You wouldn't notice it's different unless you were really looking for it."

"Or if you were trying to hide something without losing sight of it yourself." Sherlock darted behind the counter, seized the oddball napoleon, and snapped it in half. Everyone stared expectantly at the mixture of crumbled puff pastry, cream, and chocolate in his hands. Then, slowly, as he pulled the pieces apart, very thin and flat sheets that were definitely not part of the dessert came to light. Sherlock pulled one of the things between his fingers to remove the filling and reveal –

"That's a hundred dollar bill!" Gregson exclaimed. "How many more are in that thing?"

"There's at least four more in this napoleon alone. I daresay we'll find the rest of the bills hidden in that rack of napoleons. I give the chef full marks for creativity and practicality. What could be a better blind for smuggling their stolen money out of the store than a customer coming in to buy a couple of treats?"


	13. July 13 - Your Science is Bad

Title: Your Science is Bad and John Feels Bad

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC

Rating: G

Warnings: small lesson in evolutionary biology

Word count: 100

Summary: Some parts of the human body are less well-designed than others

Prompt: July 13 – nature is red in tooth and claw

* * *

John gasped at the sharp and sudden burst of pain in the left side of his groin but grimly hung on to the end of the heavy trunk until Sherlock was well out of the way. Only then did he allow it drop to the floor and himself to curl up in agony. Sherlock made a cry of alarm but John ignored it. He was too busy silently cursing each and every one of his evolutionary ancestors for having endowed their male offspring with testicles that had to descend out of the body, thus leaving them prone to inguinal hernias.


	14. July 14 - Rebuilding

Title: Rebuilding

Author: Pompey

Universe: ACD

Rating: G

Warnings: n/a

Word count: 325

Summary: A series of word-snapshots as Holmes and Watson rebuild their friendship post-Hiatus.

Prompt: July 14 - rehabilitation

* * *

Even though it was his fifth visit to Baker Street after Holmes's resurrection, Watson still perched rather than sat on one of the cane-back chairs, looking somewhat out of place. Which he was, in Holmes's opinion, since Watson's place was in his old chair by the fire, perhaps with one of his sea novels or a medical journal. He should not look as though he were an unwanted guest, not in a room that used to be half his.

"Watson, what would you say to moving back here?"

* * *

He should never have left Holmes alone when he was in the middle of investigating a man with a particularly violent history. Now he was gone – heaven only knew where – without any sort of weapon as far as Watson knew. He tried to tell himself that Holmes would be fine, that this criminal was no Moriarty, that he ought not to wait up for his friend.

When Holmes finally walked through the door, bedraggled but unharmed, Watson fought back a literal sob of relief. His heartbeat, which had been racing for hours, finally slowed its frantic pace.

* * *

"I've taken up quite enough of your time, my dear fellow. If you prefer to return to Baker Street . . . " Holmes paused for a moment. He did not like that weary sort of resignation creeping over Watson's face at his words. Besides which, there was a witness to question and a personal ledger to study. Both tasks were critical and he could not do both at the same time.

"Well, in truth, Watson, if you could spare a few hours more, I can promise you they would be put to good use."

* * *

"No," Holmes told the new client firmly. "Dr. Watson is as much a part of this agency as I. It is both of us or neither."

Watson silently chiseled the words into his memory and indulged in the glow they gave him.


	15. July 15 - What Are You Tolkien About?

Title: What Are You Tolkien About?

Author: Pompey

Universe: Elementary

Rating: G

Warnings: just for the terrible pun of a title

Word count: 165

Summary: And Joan makes 14.

Prompt: July 15 – Throw the Book at 'Em

A/N: How could I not choose _The Hobbit_ ? But I did try to go with a different 'verse.

* * *

Joan glanced around the room in some bemusement at the literal dozen officers who had shown up unexpectedly on her doorstep and were now milling around her home. "You couldn't have had them convene somewhere else?"

"Your apartment is a half a block away from our target," Sherlock replied over the babble. "And I knew you'd want to be involved."

"I'm hoping you want me involved because of what I can bring to the party, not because I'd be the fourteenth member of your little expedition." Then, at Sherlock's blank look, Joan clarified, "You know. Twelve cops plus you would be thirteen. Unlucky."

Sherlock scoffed through his nose. "Superstition does not befit a woman of reason and logic. And yes, I want you along for your skills."

"Just so long as I don't have to ride any barrels," Joan muttered, turning away.

"Watson." She turned back to see Sherlock giving her a puckish smile. "Do try to remember to take a handkerchief when you leave."


	16. July 16 - Murder at the Cathedral

Title: Murder at the Cathedral

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC

Rating: PG

Warnings: Book-verse, so deviates quite a bit from the Disney version most people know. (Also a bit dark)

Word count: 312

Summary: There's nothing Sherlock likes better than a seemingly perfect crime. Bonus if it's a murder.

Prompt: July 16 – "I Feel A Bit Prouder Knowing Sherlock Holmes Is British **"**

* * *

The story was that the nanny had taken the two little children in her care to get gingerbread from some sweetshop John had never heard of. Apart from that last part, it seemed an airtight alibi. And the children were adamant that the nanny had been with them the entire afternoon - "Except for when she and Mrs. Corry went into the back kitchen, but only for a couple minutes."

And how could the children be so sure it was only a couple minutes? "Because Mrs. Corry's daughter started singing 'My Old Man Said Follow the Van' when they left and she was finishing the last verse when they came back," said the girl. "She never sings when Mrs. Corry's around."

"I think she's afraid of Mrs. Corry," the boy added sadly. "Mrs. Corry isn't very nice to her."

Well. That was a bit odd but certainly not anything more than circumstantial evidence at best. Besides, a couple minutes was nowhere near enough time to get from the sweetshop to St. Paul's Cathedral – let alone get to the cathedral, murder a homeless woman, and get back again.

And yet, the nanny was at present the only person with the slightest bit of motive. She had publicly expressed dislike and contempt for the woman, her "sparrers", and her selling bits of stale bread to feed the pigeons. Then today one of the pigeons had dared to relieve itself on the nanny's brand new hat, infuriating her.

John glanced at Sherlock as they walked away. "You think it was the nanny, don't you."

"I know it was her."

"But . . . how? I mean, how did she do it? She was only gone for five minutes!"

Sherlock squared his shoulders. "It will be a challenge to prove it, I'll admit. Her crime was practically perfect in every way."


	17. July 17 - Shared laurels

Title: Shared Laurels

Author: Pompey

Universe: Without a Clue (Movie premise: Sherlock Holmes was a fictional character created by Dr. Watson to hide his detective hobby, but the when the public insisted on meeting the real Holmes, Watson hired an actor named Reginald Kincaid to play him. Only Mrs. Hudson and the Irregulars know that Watson is the real brains behind the operation.)

Rating: G

Warnings: spoiler for end of the movie (although not the solution to the mystery)

Word count: 292

Summary: Knowing Kincaid as well as he did, there was little that he could do that would surprise Dr. Watson – but this did.

Prompt: July 17 - Teamwork

* * *

Watson repressed a sigh and a groan. He was never going to get out from under the shadow this monster of his own creation cast. His new Crime Doctor serial would never even make it to the first issue. His deductions would never be taken seriously unless they came from the mouth of "Sherlock Holmes." He would be constantly stymied in his investigations unless he claimed he was there at Holmes's bidding. And all the while, that drunken lout would lap up his unearned glory and peacock about in front of an adoring public.

Well, to be truthful, Kincaid was welcomed to that last bit. It wasn't adoration Watson wanted – just a little recognition now and then, that's all. Someone acknowledging his contributions for once wasn't that much to ask for.

That was part of the reason he had told Kincaid the truth at the end of the investigation, that he had truly been useful. Of course, the man had made some blunders but discovering the location of the hideout on his own really was quite impressive, especially given his limitations and history.

And then Kincaid surprised him again with a public declaration concerning the "invaluable assistance" of Dr. John Watson. That itself was quite touching, but the addition of a very heartfelt, "my friend" – not only from "Holmes" for the benefit of the public but clearly from Kincaid himself – followed by a round of applause . . . Watson could not repress his amazement. And gratitude, come to that. But then, Kincaid was an actor. He understood how important a show of appreciation could be.

And that was why Watson was so quick to deny Kincaid's announcement that "Sherlock Holmes" was retiring. Shared laurels weren't so hard a burden to bear.


	18. July 18 - Cold Comfort

Title: Cold Comfort

Author: Pompey

Universe: William S. Baring-Gould (in which Watson married Constance Adams before Mary Morstan)

Rating: PG

Warnings: unrequited slash

Word count: 213

Summary: The only thing as hard as grieving is watching a loved one grieve.

Prompt: July 18 – And with this pen, I thee wed/From my heart to your distress

* * *

At the funeral Watson had been stone-faced, remote, detached. I had not determined if it was still the shock of losing his wife to such a sudden illness or if it was a deliberate way to ensure he kept his composure. Afterward, he politely and quietly turned down my offer for him to return to Baker Street for the day. Just as politely and quietly, he refused my offer – admittedly made with some hesitance – for me to join him at his home.

I knew very well that he was returning to an empty house, having already given the maid and cook the day off. But since privacy seemed to be what his grief demanded, then privacy he should have. I would not – would not! – so much as let myself imagine Watson weeping alone, hurting alone.

Nor would I imagine myself going to him, kissing away each tear; embracing him; showing him he could finally let down the brave, stoic façade and I would not be repulsed or embarrassed; lessening his grief just a fraction. They were selfish thoughts, caring more for my wants than his needs, especially at this time. He had already lost a wife. If he knew my true feelings towards him, he would very likely lose a friend as well.


	19. July 19 - Far From Home (part 1)

Title: Far From Home

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC, ACD/Gaslight, and Dr. Who

Rating: PG

Warnings: AU, crossover(s)

Word count: 565

Summary: Victorian London is dirty, smelly, crime-ridden . . . and now John's new home.

Prompt: July 19 – Choose your AU. (Went with time-travel and unexpected crossover)

* * *

"Sherlock, was that statue there before?"

It just figured that the one time John was more observant than Sherlock it would come back to bite him.

"You go on ahead, I want to look at something."

He should have kept his mouth shut and eyes shut. Because that statue hadn't been there before, he was sure of it. And the closer had got to it, the surer he became that there was something very wrong with it. For one, it no longer had its face bowed into its hands. Its blank, stone eyes were staring into his. Obeying a well-honed sense of self-preservation, John turned to run. In an instant a very cold, very hard hand grasped his wrist.

The next thing he knew, he was dragging himself out of a disgusting pile of rotting rubbish and filth. His head was spinning and his stomach was churning from more than just the putrid smell. What the hell had just happened to him? Why were the streets suddenly an old-fashioned cobblestone? Why were there the sounds of horses' hooves and rattling wheels instead of engines? Why was the air so rank and smoky and sooty? And why was everyone wearing late Victorian costumes?

The longer John watched them, the more weirded out he felt. The clothing didn't exactly look like costumes. Oh, they were antique-looking but there was a wear to them that didn't look like costuming. Some of the outfits were downright grotty, with visible sweat stains under the arms and around the collars, and lines of grime and frayed threads. And the smells coming off the masses told John plainly that they were definitely unwashed. If this was a prank, it was a bloody realistic one.

John pulled out his phone to try to get a bead on where he was. Except he couldn't get a single bar of service and his battery was already half dead from searching for a signal. Frowning, John turned on his airplane mode. No point in draining the battery further.

He started walking along the road, reading the street signs. Some of the names he recognized but even the signs and the buildings looked different. Very different. And people he passed were starting to give him odd looks, as though he were the strange one.

The last straw was the newspaper stand, an outmoded item in the age of Google and online media. Then he caught a glimpse of the coins that the newspaper seller and the newspaper buyer were exchanging. He knew shillings and crowns and such were considered "old money" but this was ridiculous. The worst, though, was reading the date of the current newspaper.

It was possible this was some sort of exceptionally realistic movie set. Or maybe an elaborate joke. Or maybe even a nightmare. But after reading that date, John felt a sort of cold nausea that had nothing to do with the remnants of the rubbish pile clinging to his jacket or the vile smells of his surroundings. The seed of belief had already been planted and he couldn't uproot it. Not even a genius like Sherlock Holmes would be able to solve the mystery of the disappearance of one John Watson, not if his theory was right.

The date on the newspaper was May 20, 1894. And even though he was still in London, John felt a million miles from home.


	20. July 20 - Far From Home (part 2)

Title: Far From Home (2/?)

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC, ACD/Gaslight, Dr. Who

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: crossover(s)

Word count: 438

Summary: John considers his options in the year 1894.

Prompt: July 20 - "There is a tide in the affairs of men" - Shakespeare: Julius Caesar

A/N: I hadn't meant for this to become another ongoing story but you guys asked so you shall receive. Anyway, now I'm kinda interested myself to see what's going to happen to John (I haven't plotted anything yet so anything can happen – this might not even have that happy of an ending!)

* * *

John turned away from the newspaper stand and walked slowly away. For a while he let his body wander where it would while his mind whirled about in a fog of shock, denial, and fear. Why was it that he kept finding himself bizarre, dangerous situations? What sort of malevolent moon kept pulling at the tides of his life?

John finally stopped along some river he didn't even recognize – was it the Thames? The Serpentine? Whichever it was, it was just as filthy and stinking as the rest of this London - and rested his elbows on the low railing. The water was too dark to show him his reflection but the sound of the rushing water was perfect for reflecting mentally. A numb sort of practicality had risen to the surface of John's consciousness. Time to take stock of his situation and figure out a course of action from there.

He was stuck in 1894 – May 20th, to be exact - with no known way of getting back to his own time, nobody he could go to for help, anachronistic clothing, no contemporary currency, credit and debit cards that could not be swiped, virtually nothing of value (at least by 1894 standards) to pawn, a set of skills for technology and medicine that wouldn't exist for decades, and a cell phone that would search uselessly for a signal until its battery died the rest of the way.

Anything here and now that he could use to his advantage? Anything at all?

Well, he could still throw a mean hook if he had to. Anyone who tried to mug him would be in for a bit of a surprise. And even though his Sig was back in the Twenty-first Century, he was reasonable sure he could handle a firearm if he came across one here.

He had a warm jacket and a decent pair of shoes. That was more than a lot of the people around him had. He didn't need to take any medications back home, so he wasn't stranded here and now without much-needed meds. That was something.

From his observations of the 1894 public in general, it seemed that being not quite 169 centimeters tall meant he was no longer quite so comparatively short. Still shorter than average but by a much smaller margin. That was nice.

So, to sum up: he could defend himself if he had to; he had clothes; he didn't have to worry about having a seizure or going into a diabetic coma; he was no longer all that short, comparatively speaking.

Right then. It just might be time to panic.


	21. July 21 - Far From Home part 3

Title: Far From Home (part 3/?)

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC, ACD/Gaslight, Dr. Who

Rating: PG

Warnings: crossover(s)

Word count: 784

Summary: 1894 gets even worse for John.

Prompt: July 21 – song prompt 6: Behind the Broken Glass

* * *

Tempting as it was, John knew he didn't have the luxury of panicking, not now. The shadows were lengthening. Evening was approaching, he was not in the best part of the city (which wasn't necessarily saying much), and he was going to need shelter and ideally some food. And he was going to have to get them without money. Or much working knowledge of late-Victorian London.

John turned away from the river and started walking in a direction that would roughly take him east. There might be some charity around that he could spend the night in. Then tomorrow he could go about figuring out what to do.

"Oi! You there!"

John stopped and searched for the source of the voice. He didn't have to look long. Two men, obviously not overly concerned with hygiene, were approaching him. The leader of the pair gave him a smile that would not have been out of place in an asylum for the criminally insane. The other just looked dirty. "Funny lookin' coat you got, mate. We might need ya ta take it off and show us the label. Make sure it's proper English make." The two sniggered as though this were the funniest thing they'd heard all week.

John sighed. Of course. Just what he needed: muggers.

Uncertain light glinted off a blade in the man's hand. John had a brief moment of longing for his gun, more than a hundred years away. Then he scanned his surroundings for something he could commandeer for a weapon and spied a cracked bottle half hidden by street detritus.

John made a dive for the bottle, grabbed it, and smashed the bottom end against the nearest wall. The glass shattered in a rather satisfying burst, leaving jagged triangles sharp enough to rival the tough's knife. Behind the broken glass weapon, John narrowed his eyes in his best I-will-fuck-you-up demeanor. "Fair warning: I've killed better men than you."

Grimy Bloke glanced at his armed companion for guidance. Knife hesitated. John gave them a firm nod and slowly backed away, not taking his eyes off them.

Suddenly Knife had second thoughts and lunged at John. John easily pivoted away to the right so the stab missed by him easily. Then he finished the pivot and jabbed the broken bottle into the back of Knife's neck, simultaneously sweeping his leg against Knife's foot so that he fell forward. There was a thunk as Knife's nose hit the ground and a faint metallic clatter as his weapon dropped from his hand.

John whirled around, pointing the now bloodied bottle end at Grimy Bloke. Grimy took another look at Knife, now groaning on the ground, and proved that intelligence was not his strong suit: he attempted to tackle John by diving under his outstretched arm.

To be fair, the move did take John by surprise. Unfortunately for the street tough, the momentum sent them toppling on top of Knife, who made a wheezing gasp beneath the two struggling men. Too close to his target for the bottle, John drove the heel of his hand hard into Grimy's nose, which promptly started to spurt blood. All over John. Half in disgust, half to get the man off him, John made a hand chop at Grimy's throat. He wheezed even harder than Knife had and offered no resistance as John pushed him off

At this point, John was able to roll off of Knife and get back to his feet. He paused for just a second to indulge in some self-congratulations at the sight of his would-be assailants crumpled on the ground. And then – there was a whistle blast behind him and someone hit him in the back of the head with something hard.

It wasn't hard enough to knock him out but it was hard enough to send him staggering. Then beefy hands grabbed him and shoved him face-first against one a wall. "Roight," a baritone voice bellowed in his ear, "you are under arrest for brawling on a public street!" John's hands were pulled behind him and he felt the unmistakable sensation of cold metal being snapped onto his wrists.

"It was self-defense," he tried to argue but he was already being dragged to some kind of grotty carriage – was that a Black Maria? – and flung into it. Knife and Grimy were soon to follow, although neither of them were as yet in any condition to cause him problems. The door slammed behind them, surrounding them all in a stinking gloom. Then, with a lurch, the carriage started moving to the sound of horse hooves clopping.

 _Well_ , John thought, grimly optimistic, _this takes care of getting a roof over my head for the_ _night_.


	22. July 22 - Far From Home (part 4)

Title: Far From Home (part 4/7)

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC, ACD/Gaslight, Dr. Who

Rating: PG

Warnings: AU, crossover

Word count: 303

Summary: John's entry into 1894 does not go unnoticed.

Prompt: July 22 - Take a child's-eye view of Holmes and/or Watson or their world

* * *

Scarper Ed watched the fight and the subsequent arrests from the shadows. Mr. Holmes had been right about everything: the time, the street, the two toughs, the short blond man in the funny clothes who would win the fight, and what would happen to all three men. Still, the boy waited until the Maria was rattling away before moving. He hadn't picked any pockets that night but just try and make the peelers believe that! Besides, he had a report to give.

True to his nickname, Scarper Ed made it to Baker Street in about half the time it would have taken any of the other Irregulars. The door hadn't been locked for the night yet, but then Mr. Holmes was expecting him. Quietly, he made his way up the stairs to the sitting room. Mr. Holmes had folded up his legs and was staring into the small fire. He turned to look at the boy questioningly.

Scarper Ed nodded. "You was right about all of it, Mr. Holmes. The man in the funny clothes won the fight but the peelers got him too."

Mr. Holmes smiled like that was the best news he'd heard in a long time. "Excellent! You've more than earned your wage tonight." He handed the boy a few coins and then paused. "There's one more task I have for you, one that I'd be willing to pay a guinea for."

Scarper Ed's eyes widened. A whole guinea? Was he barking? And just what kind of task would Mr. Holmes be asking him to do at that price?

Mr. Holmes told him. Scarper Ed was surprised and relieved it was something so simple. And yet he couldn't help but wonder why, if Mr. Holmes knew so much about what was going to happen, he didn't just do it himself.


	23. July 23 - Far From Home (part 5)

Title: Far From Home (part 5/7)

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC, ACD/Gaslight, Dr. Who

Rating: PG

Warnings: AU, crossover. (Also, fairly sad pun towards the end.)

Word count:

Summary: In 1894, John finds someone waiting for him. And then another someone.

Prompt: July 23 - Use a pun in your entry today

* * *

It was, John reflected, not the worst night of his life. There had certainly been more terrible ones. Still, spending the night in a cold and damp prison cell wasn't exactly what he would call pleasant. At least they hadn't made him turn out his pockets. Who knows what they would have done with him after seeing his mobile and wallet.

When the pale, sickly sunlight filtered into his cell, he was released. It was six a.m., or at least that's what he was told when he asked. An officer escorted him through the gate and that was that. John was on his own again and with no change in his situation – except that he was hungrier than he had been twelve hours previously. He decided to try the charity angle again. And this time, he might just make it there.

"Oi, wait up!" shouted a high-pitched voice from behind him. John turned and saw a child somewhere between eight and twelve years old, clad in filthy and tattered clothing, come running up to him and grabbed at his pocket.

Somehow John repressed a groan. Two attempts to rob him in less than twenty-four hours; was that a new record? "Look, I don't have any money or any valuables so you might as well clear off."

The boy (at least, he thought it was a boy) shook his head and tugged on John's pocket. "Can't. You need to come with me."

"Need to? No, I really think I don't." Firmly John extricated himself from the boy's grip and started walking away.

The boy called after him, "Yes, you really do . . . Dr. Watson."

John whirled around and stared at the boy, who burst into a grin of delight at his shock. He felt himself break out in goosebumps. First it was moving statues, then time travel, and now this. "Right," he said slowly, wishing for some kind of weapon. Even if it was just a broken bottle. "Who are you, how did you know my name, and how much do you know about . . . " John waved his hand vaguely at their surroundings, "all this?"

The boy stepped closer. "I'm Scarper Ed," he announced and held out a small, dingy hand that John was obviously meant to shake. He did, gingerly.

"The man you need to see told me who you was," Scarper Ed continued, pulling at his hand. "He told me to meet you when they let you out. And he said that you need to see him."

John kept his feet in place. "Who is this man I need to see?"

The boy grinned again, clearly relishing knowing something that John didn't. "He told me I couldn't tell you. He said that you had to see him in person."

Well. That wasn't least bit ominous-sounding. "And just why is it so important that I see him in person?"

Scarper Ed stopped smiling. "Because he said you'd never believe it if you didn't. And because you ain't got nowhere else to go."

There was more truth to that last statement than John liked, double negatives notwithstanding. "OK," he agreed and allowed the strange child to lead him down the streets.

The further they walked, the more streets John recognized and the more uneasy he became. Finally, they turned onto Baker Street. John silently counted the building numbers as they went past the 180s, then 190s, and into the 200s. Then the 210s gave way to 220 and John found himself frozen outside an all too-familiar address.

"Don't stop here!" Scarper Ed exclaimed, trying to physically push John past the doorway of 221. "Come on, come on, come on, come on!"

"Chameleon," John murmured, unable to help himself despite, or perhaps because of, his fraying nerves. At Scarper Ed's puzzled look, he hastily added, "Never mind. It's from before your time. . . . Or after."

The boy merely huffed at the delay. "Look, I got a guinea coming to me if I get you to him. So hurry up!"

Wishing for a weapon once again, John warily entered. The layout of the building was the same although the décor was definitely not. He paused just outside the door to what would be his flat in over a hundred years, steeling himself to meet whoever was inside. If it was one of those stone statue things, he thought he just might go mad.

Impatiently, Scarper Ed turned the knob and flung the door open. John took in the room. Like the downstairs, the layout of windows and such was the same but everything else was alien. Except for the man who had sprung up from his chair at their entry.

Tall and thin build. Dark curly hair. Ice blue eyes. Wearing clothing that was Victorian but with a cut that screamed posh tailoring.

"Sherlock?!"

His flatmate smiled, showing lines and wrinkles that hadn't been there the last time John had seen him. "It's good to see you again, John. Thirteen years is a long time to wait for my blogger."


	24. July 24 - Far From Home (part 6)

Title: Far From Home (part 6/7)

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC, ACD/Gaslight, Dr. Who

Rating: PG

Warnings: AU, crossover. Also the blatant stealing of a quote from _Back to the Future III_.

Word count: 673

Summary: In 1894, John and Sherlock have a reunion.

Prompt: July 24 - "Nothing shocks me. I'm a scientist"

* * *

John stood perfectly still at Sherlock's greeting, trying to sort out what question he should ask first. Apparently he waited too long since Sherlock started looking a little uneasy. "OK," he said at last. "Sherlock, you are going to explain what's going on. Right now. Or I swear to God, I will punch you in the face again and this time I'll be aiming for those damn cheekbones!"

Scarper Ed looked at him warily. "He doesn't sound like the Dr. Watson from the stories."

"What?"

"That will do, Master Edward," Sherlock interrupted, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a handful of coins. "These total up to a guinea and without the suspicion that a single guinea coin would cause. I shall let you know the next time I need your services."

Scarper Ed gleefully grabbed the coins, gave John one more curious look, and then pelted out the door and down the stairs. Neither man spoke until the sound of footsteps dwindled away.

"Sit down, John," Sherlock said, turning to stoke the fire a little. "I'm afraid I can't offer you any breakfast at the moment but Mrs. Turner should be up shortly with some tea. I took the liberty of gathering some things for you; they're in the upstairs bedroom and – "

"Sherlock." John hadn't meant to sound so incredibly weary but all he wanted was some answers. "It has been a very long day. Please. Just start from the beginning."

"Given the amount of time travel involved, identifying what constitutes 'the beginning' may prove difficult." Sherlock stopped at the sight of John's hand curled halfway into a fist and the definitely unamused expression on his face. "Let's begin with you, then. On March 23, 2013. The day that John Watson disappeared without a trace."

John sat across from Sherlock, feeling horribly guilty although the circumstances had definitely been out of his control. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean - "

"Of course you didn't," he interrupted but kindly, "but the fact is, you did disappear and I couldn't find a single clue as to where you had gone. Your footprints showed that you had walked up to a certain point, turned quickly, took a single step – and then nothing." Sherlock didn't elaborate on that point but John could fill in the blanks himself: Sherlock irritated and then alarmed by his absence; Sherlock frantic as he tried fruitlessly to find any clue; Sherlock frightened and furious at himself for his inability to solve this mystery. "Interestingly, the statue you had mentioned was also gone."

"I don't think it really was a statue," John said slowly. "It moved, Sherlock, I swear it did. And its face was one of the creepiest thing I've ever seen."

Sherlock nodded. "Nothing shocks me; I'm a scientist. But that thing was certainly unnerving."

John started. "You saw it too? But -oh!" Suddenly he understood at least part of the picture. "You were looking for me. The statue thing grabbed you and the next thing you knew you were in 1881. Thirteen years before . . . well, now."

"You are mostly correct. I was grabbed by the thing and sent back to 1881. But I wasn't looking for you. I was looking for it."

"Wait, what?" John felt his grasp on understanding the situation sliding again. "Why were you looking for the statue instead of me?"

"Because I knew finding the statue would eventually lead me to you here, in 1894. Or rather, lead you to me, since I was sent further into the past than you."

John scrubbed at his face, trying to will away the incredible headache he could feel forming. "Wait, wait. If the past you – that is, the you from 2013 – was sent back to 1881, then how could you – the you here and now, I mean – have possibly known where I was going to be? Or when I was going to be?"

Sherlock merely smiled and held out to John a yellowed, brittle piece of paper. "You wrote me a letter."


	25. July 26 - Far From Home (part 7)

Title: Far From Home (part 7/7)

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC, ACD/Gaslight, Dr. Who

Rating: PG

Warnings: AU, crossover.

Word count: 1330

Summary: The partnership continues.

Prompt: July 26 – Earth/Air/Fire/Water

A/N: I'm going with the timeline that says John and Mary got married in the summer of 2013, so this is set kind of in the middle of Season 3, thus making this AU for the last half of Season 3. (Also, the reference to John's medical specialty comes from a screenshot of his CV in "Blind Banker.")

* * *

"It was a rather ingenious plan," Sherlock added as John carefully accepted the fragile thing. "You put, or will put, this letter into a series of envelopes and put the whole thing into a time capsule that was to be opened on January 1, 2013. The letter was addressed to Mycroft's home address with enough postage to legally mail it."

"I sent it to _Mycroft_?" John asked in some disbelief. "And he didn't read it?"

Sherlock smirked. "I couldn't find any evidence of tampering on the wax seal so apparently having a series of envelopes each bearing a message addressed specifically to Mycroft and reminding him that he was reading someone else's mail was enough of a deterrent. Although it did take at least eight such envelopes, which is why the letter was folded so many times."

John nodded, seeing the paper separating along the many fold lines. The handwriting was definitely his but it was disorienting to see it in so old a document.

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _If all has gone according to plan you'll be getting this the day after I disappear, March 24, 2013. I'm sorry I couldn't get this to you sooner but if you got this before now you wouldn't have understood it. I want you to know I'm alive and I'm ok. I wasn't kidnapped and I didn't run away. I never planned to leave at all, it just happened._

 _And what happened? Well I got sent back in time to May 20, 1894. Yeah I know it sounds crazy and if it hadn't happened to me I wouldn't believe it either. But I promise this isn't a trick or a prank. And to prove it's really me I'll tell you that we had planned to pick up the dry cleaning today. Also that two days ago you put the leftover curry in the fridge next to the toes and we had a bit of a row about it and you finally agreed to move it to the shelf above the toes. And if you still don't believe me have this paper and ink analyzed, it should be 119 years old by the time you're reading this._

 _Anyway the stone statue I wanted to look at, I think it's responsible for this. I don't know how but I swear that thing was alive or something. It MOVED, Sherlock, really. I can hear you scoffing but it's really no crazier than time travel. When you go back there BE CAREFUL!_

 _And yeah I said "when." Because well, let's just say that right now I'm not alone here. You made (or are going to make?) a huge sacrifice. I don't know if you'll make the same decision now because if time travel's possible then maybe parallel universes are too but if you do there's a bunch of information on page 2 that you'll need to know. You should have all the facts before you make your decision. If you make a different choice than the one you made (will make?) in my timeline/universe I want you to know I understand and it's ok. You need to make the decision that you can live with._

 _Either way you can show this to Mycroft, if you want. And please let Mary know? Not that I've gone back in time of course but that I'm – gone, I guess. She doesn't need to waste her life waiting for a man who's never going to show up._

 _I think that's about it except for the stuff on page 2. Take care of yourself, Sherlock._

 _John Watson_

 _21 May 1894_

John looked up from the letter with some alarm. "You did tell Mary that I – I don't know, disappeared or something, right?"

Sherlock made an odd movement with his mouth. "I told her that you had disappeared, that all signs indicated you were dead, but that I would continue to look for you and that I wouldn't return until I had."

"And she accepted that?"

Sherlock made that odd movement again. "There are some things I have learned about Mary that I will tell you at a later time. You've had rather enough shocks for one day, I think. But yes, she accepted it. It helped that every word I said was true in one way or another."

That sounded rather bad but John decided to return to that topic later. Sherlock was right about having enough shocks for one day. "OK, let me make sure I understand this: you chose to go back to 1881 just to wait for me for thirteen years? And I did warn you about that, didn't I? On page 2?"

"Yes, yes, and yes." Sherlock watched John carefully.

John felt his throat tighten. "You sacrificed thirteen years of your life for me?"

"I wouldn't call it a sacrifice. I've established a practice and even if the Scotland Yard officials are somehow even more idiotic than in the twenty-first century, at least they're learning forensic science from the best."

"Oh my God, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, half-laughing, half fighting back tears. "All right, so we've found each other. Now how do we get back to 2013?"

Sherlock glanced at him, deliberately rose from his chair, crossed to the mantle, and toyed with a knife that was thrust into it.

Alarm bells started ringing in John's head and he stood too. "Sherlock?"

"I don't know, John." The detective turned to face him full-on. "There may be a way of returning to our time but I have yet to find it."

John reached out and grabbed the mantle, needing something solid to hold himself up. "You mean we're stuck here. In 1894."

"Essentially."

In a voice that seemed miles away, John said, "Please tell me I told you that on page two."

"You did, yes."

"OK, good. That's . . . that's good. I mean, good that I told you, not good that we're here." John realized he was floundering his words a bit more than he usually did in awkward situations but Sherlock didn't mock him. "So. Um. What do we do . . . with the rest of our lives?"

"As I told you before," Sherlock began, turning back to his chair and sending his dressing gown into swirls at his ankles, "I have already established myself as a private consulting detective. It is a lucrative practice but," he met John's eyes, "it can be a lonely one. There is a Dr. Doyle here I once impressed with my deductions and he insisted on writing up some of my cases for publication. I suggested that he write them from the point of view of a narrator called Dr. John Watson. And he did."

"The Dr. Watson from the stories," John murmured, remembering Scarper Ed's words. "So. Is this Dr. Doyle your new 'blogger'?"

Sherlock shrugged. "The two of you can hash it out between yourselves. But there is only one doctor I would care to have as my partner in this detective agency." He raised his eyebrows slightly.

"I don't suppose there's much need for a doctor trained in bloodless laparoscopic surgery in 1894," John replied with a faint smile. He slipped off his jacket, hung it on the nearby coatrack, and pulled out his wallet and mobile. "We'll have to figure out what to do with these."

"The wallet itself you can probably keep. As for the rest of it – " Sherlock picked up the one hundred and nineteen year old letter and dropped it into the fire.

"Sherlock!" John rushed to the fireplace but the delicate paper was already disintegrating flakes of charcoal. He whirled around to glare at the detective, who remained unimpressed.

"We must destroy any and all anachronisms."

"Sherlock, _we_ are anachronisms," John retorted, "and I haven't written that letter yet! How will I know what to put in it?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock answered without any real bite behind his words. "You've written it once before; you can certainly do it again."


	26. July 28 - Carry On

Title: Carry On

Author: Pompey

Universe: my head-canon ACD

Rating: PG

Warnings: mention of death, grieving. Touches of William S. Baring-Gould biographies

Word count: 125

Summary: How do you explain death to a child too young to understand?

Prompt: July 28 - "In July the sun is hot; is it shining? No it's not."

* * *

The funeral was in July, a hot and sticky day despite the overcast sky. The lack of a shining sun was one of three things that allowed Andrew Watson* to keep himself together. The other two were his sons. For their sake, he could not go to pieces, no matter how much he mourned the loss of his wife.

Harry was seven, old enough to understand that she was not coming back. But Jack was barely four and every confused, plaintive request for his mother sent another bolt of pain through Andrew's heart. The best he could do for either of them was to hold Jack on his lap, wrap his other arm around Harry's shoulders, and try to be both a mother and father.

* * *

*A/N: In SIGN (set around 1887), Holmes says that Watson's watch had belonged to his father and is about 50 years old, which means the watch was made in the 1830s. But if Watson was born in the mid-1850s (my own head-canon says spring of 1853 to have taken his M.D. in 1878), then to have owned a watch worth fifty guineas that was made in the 1830s either his father was rather old when Watson was born, or he was given a very expensive watch at a very young age, or the watch belonged to Watson's grandfather first and then passed to his Watson's father before going to Watson's brother. ("Jewelry usually descends to the eldest son" after all.) So in my head-canon, the H.W. stands for Hamish Watson, John's grandfather.


End file.
